You Will Not Die Today
by SherlockedWhovian9
Summary: Harry Watson gets a visitor - but is it too late to stop John from doing the unthinkable? Johnlock.


_John, you have to talk to me sometime. ~HW_

Harry reviews the message and debates sending it. Is it fair to John to keep needling him like this? Everyone has a process, for God's sake. God knew it took Harry some time to get over what she'd done to Clara, no matter what John thought. Furthermore, John is seeing a psychologist. He probably has a better handle on his emotions than Harry does.

Even so, his silence since the death of his best friend has been deafening. Harry doesn't know if he'd left 221B Baker Street since the suicide except to attend his therapy sessions, get a few needfuls, and visit the grave of Sherlock Holmes. He hasn't been so withdrawn since . . .well, she had been thinking he'd been like this after Afghanistan, but the truth was that he had never _really_ been like this. Not really.

Surely he needs a sounding board. Surely he needs a friend.

She hits _Send_ on the message, aware that it's almost a certainty that he won't respond. He hasn't responded to any of her other texts; why would he start now? So thinking, Harry Watson, _neé_ Harriet Watson, shuts down her terminal and makes preparations to leave at the end of her shift. Like clockwork, Kim Culver, her relief replacement and cubicle mate, arrives at exactly three minutes to seven to discuss the Manchester United vs. Arsenal match and to briefly go over the workload. Call volume has been very light, as it had been since that mad bastard Jim Moriarty – who, it turned out, had been very real, no matter what Kitty Riley claimed to have known – swallowed a fast-moving bullet. There have been a few extra calls this day, but it was petty stuff, just a couple of extra muggings and burglaries. No dead bodies, and for that she's grateful.

She makes her way out of the call center for London Emergency Services, removing her badge as she leaves the building. She's now just another one of the multitudes of people moving lazily through the city streets, anonymous. She can pretend she hadn't broken Clara's heart. She can pretend her relationship with her brother isn't strained, and that he isn't currently hurting in a way he himself can't fully understand. She can pretend to be anyone, a tourist, perhaps, even a missing Royal. _Wouldn't that be a laugh?_

She maintains the illusion of being outside of herself until she stops in front of her flat. She uses her postbox key and opens the box. All of this is routine, done on auto-pilot, one of her rituals to slip back into her skin so she can get the day over with.

A deep voice is cleared behind her. She mumbles a quick "Sorry" and steps aside to let another tenant retrieve his mail. No alarm bells; this is just more of the same auto-pilot routine.

"Miss Watson."

_That_ was unexpected. She freezes, her left hand still in the postbox and her right hand clutching a sales circular for Harrod's and a copy of the _Sun_. She wishes she had a third hand she could surreptitiously slip into her right trousers pocket and retrieve her can of pepper spray.

"Please, Miss Watson, may I have a word?"

The voice is deep, sonorous, and a model of solicitude. She turns slowly and carefully, trying to remember all of the advice she'd gotten during the mandatory self-defense training she'd received for her job. It had been years ago, and she'd been ignoring the memos to refresh her training.

The man's face is long and pale. His dark hair is awkwardly cut and curled in a sweep across his forehead. He is tall and wears a long wool coat and a blue scarf tied in a slip-through around his neck. There is no mistaking her visitor. She is looking into the face of the infamous fraud, Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh my God," she says, taking a quick hop back from her postbox and dropping all of her mail in the process. She jams her right hand into her pocket and produces the pepper spray. For once she's managed to pull it out perfectly; the trigger is directly under her index finger, and she points the can at the presumed-dead stranger and presses the trigger.

She had been quick, and she knows it, but somehow he had been even quicker. He lifts a large manila envelope between her and his face. The envelope catches the full spray. In her panic she forgets to release the trigger, and now her can is exhausted. She throws it to the ground and lunges, unsure what to make of all of the emotions she is feeling or even why she should take it upon herself to hurt the man who'd hurt her brother.

Before she can land a single blow both of her hands are caught, trapped in his hold. She looks up into his face to find him grimacing with his effort to restrain her. "Please, Miss Watson."

"Why should I help you?" she asks, expending all of her strength in the struggle. She is forced to perform a strange little dance with him as she lifts her legs to kick him in strategically chosen places and he lifts his own legs to deflect her blows. "Why should I do _anything_ for you?"

"Because I know you're striking out at me because you love your brother," he says, his mouth tight. "I know you've continued to care for him and worry about him since my . . .my absence, and for that I consider you an ally."

"Your _death_, you mean," she spits at him. She calms her struggle and is now panting, back against the wall, mail strewn on the floor, and a dead man looming over her, pinning her by her wrists.

"Yes, my death, if you'd rather call it that."

"Obviously that's not what it was, not if you can physically restrain me like this."

He gives her a wry almost-smile. "Obviously."

"So you're not dead."

He shakes his head, his curls moving lazily. "No, of course not."

"Of course not? You have a preposterous sense of propriety for a dead man."

"If I release you, do you promise not to hit me?"

Harry takes a moment to consider this. She's not done wanting to hit him, but she's tired and a little out of shape, and this man seems well-rested and . . ._hungry_, somehow. He has something to prove, and he needs her help. Finally she gives him a sharp nod and he releases her wrists.

Immediately she plunges her left hand into her left trousers pocket and retrieves her mobile phone.

He sighs. His voice is weary when he says, "Who are you calling?"

"My brother, _obviously_," she answers, quickly taking several steps back from him but pinning him in place with a raised finger. "Don't move. Don't you dare move."

"Where would I go?" he asks, a smirk lifting one side of his mouth again.

John's phone doesn't even ring. Without ceremony Harry is dumped into voicemail. "John, it's me," she says, then she pauses. She can't possibly deliver this kind of news via voicemail. It's cruel. She's frustrated, but not so much that she can't see how awful that would be. John needs to hear it, but he also needs to have the opportunity for questions and feedback. "You need to call me back, right away." Without another word she ends the call.

She sighs and looks at the walking corpse in front of her. He's more than just the standard hue of London pale; he seems almost translucent. His eyes are fraught with emotion, and it's that detail that really sticks with Harry. From everything John had told her of his odd flatmate, _emotion_ never once figured. This man was spectral, haunted even. And he had come to her for help, so surely that meant . . .

Her eyes grow wide and Sherlock Holmes smiles. "So you've managed it at last," he says, his voice a low drone of pleasure. "It seems you're just as quick as John. Not optimum, but it will serve."

John struggles to get out of bed. His leg is smarting like a wee bastard, and he gives up the struggle for a moment in favor of rolling over in bed to fetch the small container of pills on his bedside. He dry-swallows several of them and gives it all a short rest. _The pills will kick in_, he assures himself as he waits. They do. He gets out of bed and grabs his cane.

John Hamish Watson moves through his day in a fog. He watches the telly. He eats food out of cans. He scans the newspapers. And once a week he rides out to the cemetery to spend time with his best friend. The truth is that he would do it every day if it wouldn't brand him a nutter. He wants to spend as much time as he can with his best friend, finally saying all the things he thought he couldn't say when he was alive.

_I should have known the call about Mrs. Hudson was a lie. I should have been with you. I should have stopped you going up on the roof. I should have killed Moriarty when I had a chance, at the pool, long before the madness. I should have punched you in the face once more. I should have held your hand once more._

John feels the emotion swamping through him and he pulls hard at the hand brake to keep himself from crying. He doesn't want to cry anymore. He is so tired of being this useless waste of feelings and ennui. If only he could make himself _understand_, if only he could justify what happened and stop blaming himself for taking part in the discrediting and death of one of the most brilliant men who'd ever lived . . .if only he could do that, he'd be a happier man. Well, maybe not _Happier_. That ship had sailed and he hadn't even been on the coast to watch it leave. He's sure it will sink at sea and he'll never see _Happier_ again. But surely he can be a functional man again. Someday.

On top of everything else, he's lost his cell phone. He can't remember when he'd last saw it, but it had to be at least two days ago. He should look for it again. Maybe someone was trying to get a hold of him. Maybe the world was ready to welcome him back. The problem is that he isn't quite ready to be welcomed back, not yet. He isn't done in Purgatory yet.

He isn't done punishing himself yet.

John Watson shambles into the living room of the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes and the first thing he sees is that obscene yellow happy face riddled with bullet holes, mocking him. And that, by God, is the last straw.

"It's just not like him to ignore me for so long," Harry says, putting her phone back on the café table. She's only letting it rest there momentarily; at Sherlock's last count, the longest it had rested was seven seconds. _She's compulsive about reaching out to her brother, because she absolutely does not want to keep this secret any longer than is necessary._

"Have you considered that perhaps your brother is depressed?" Sherlock asks, his voice flat. He is worried. People with true depression are unpredictable and sometimes end up hurting themselves.

"It's been three months," Harry answers, like that has anything to do with it. "Surely he should have gotten over you in three months."

Sherlock feels anger swell in his throat, and it takes some work to swallow it and not say something rude and satisfying to the woman he's trying to win over. A dark voice – one that sounded suspiciously like Moriarty's – crows from the back of his head: _Why are you trying to win her over, anyway? She's not helping you. At this point she's keeping you from your precious pet._

And that's how he knows the voice is a fraud. _John is not my pet._

"Would it help you to know that depression has no time limit, no expiration date?"

She blinks at him with John's eyes, and he is suddenly overcome by the memory of John's voice, some smart-arse remark dispatched at just the right moment to help Sherlock remember to act human. _Are you even listening to me, you Machine?_

Sherlock's smirk runs so deep that it's visible on the outside. _If only you knew, John. I listened to every word._

"What are you smiling at?" Harry Watson asks. Yes, she has John's eyes, and it's been nice to reconnect with those eyes, but it's not enough now. Sherlock wants more. He wants it all. He wants to see John – no, _needs_ to see him, that strange little military fellow who thought he was brilliant (extraordinary, amazing), who had no agenda, who came into his life and set it on fire – set him to burn.

"Would it be ridiculous to just pop in on your brother, find out how he's making out? Perhaps he's lost his mobile."

"What would give you that idea?"

Sherlock locks down his facial features and somehow prevents the eye-rolling. "From the moment I met him, John carried around the phone engraved with your name, the phone you gave him. He never casually left it behind; it was always on his person. He used it to communicate with me, make plans with my various nemeses, and even to order take-out curry. Not once has he failed to return a communication, even if it was a text from Jim Moriarty himself. This leads me to conclude that he's depressed enough to have lost it, and –"

Sherlock breaks off his rambling because a blinding thought has only now occurred to him, and it fries any other thought in its brilliance and panic.

"Oh."

Harry was not amused. "Oh? Oh what? What's going on?"

"We have to go. Now. We have to go right _now_!" Sherlock says, bounding to his feet and racing blindly into the nightfall.

_Dear Sherlock_,

_You had the courtesy to leave me a "note," after a fashion. It wasn't a note I could hold on to or take with me. It was just the temporary transience of your voice saying ludicrous things to me right before you took it all away._

_Well, I'm leaving you a proper note. Of course, you're not here to see it, and it will be my undoing and humiliation, but I think you're the only one I care to speak to in the end. Besides, what do I care what Anderson and Donovan think of my last words? Every one of them is true. Dead men tell no lies. You told me that once._

_So here it is: It's over. I can't bear to extend this broken life of mine another day. I have no doubt that you would be incredibly disappointed with me if you were to know what I was up to, but I can't help that. And in a little while, I won't even care about that. _

_But right now, while I still care, I have to tell you that it's come to this because I care too much. About you. I am not a homosexual man, and you're not a sexual man in any way. Having said that, my . . .caring for you is far too deep to express in the standard ways, with the standard platitudes. The word _love_ falls far short. You somehow inspired a frenzy of devotion and blind faith in me, and all of that continues to this day no matter what the idiots think. I knew you. I lived with you, saw into the brilliance of your mind when there was no reason for you to be shamming. _

_Sherlock, I can no longer live with the burden of the lie you pushed on me at the end. We both knew you were no fraud. Why would you say you were? What were you trying to prove? It was unlike you in the extreme, but I have no one to whom I can turn for answers. Even your brother Mycroft is being a right little pill about it, telling me I should leave things alone. I can't. I have to cling to the truth, no matter what anyone says. Even if it kills me. Which it's doing now._

_I've now swallowed the pills that will be the end of me. I soon won't be able to write another word. I trust you remember the password to my laptop, so if you have pulled off my one last miracle and you're alive, you will read this. If you're reading this, Sherlock, know that I am now and have ever been your friend, and when next we meet – wherever we meet – I will find a way to prove to you the depth of my regard and affections._

_Always,_

_JHW_

Sherlock storms into 221B Baker Street like he hadn't been gone a day. His eyes are wild with his singular focus: _Save John. Again. Every day. Save John._

He's taking the steps two and three at a time, but it still isn't fast enough. He's all but flying by the time he reaches the flat, and he goes straight to his old room.

It's not the time to explain how he knew John would be here, in his room. How he knew John would attempt . . ._that_ . . .in his old room. But he knew, and he was right. Again.

His throat locks up and his hands immediately start to tremble. John is on his old bed in his sleep clothes, his hands still curled on that damned old laptop – but his face is pale, his eyes open and glassy.

"No you don't," Sherlock gasps as he falls onto the bed and pulls John away from the computer. "You will not die today, John Watson."

A light sigh – it's not much by way of greeting, but Sherlock will take it. That small breath was all he needed to hear right now; it was enough to know that John was still alive. Anything more would be distracting. Quickly he analyzes the scene, pressing his fingers to John's wrist: _Labored breathing. Lowered blood pressure, but racing heart. Analysis: Sleeping pill overdose._

Methodically, frenetically he works, gathering the tools he needs to keep his friend from dying. And as he works he weeps, but he doesn't know he's doing so. That too would be a distraction.

Two hours later Sherlock is on the old couch, smoking a cigarette. To be perfectly honest, he's smoking a train of them. John is resting in Sherlock's bed, right where he'd found him. He'd dismissed the idea of calling for help with this really simple suicide case almost immediately. He knew how to perform a stomach pump, and he had all the equipment here at the flat. Of course, Mrs. Hudson had boxed up all of the equipment, but he had it and everything had worked out in time.

His mind flashes to the contents of John's stomach: _So many blue pills—sleeping pills—and some other pills too – hydrocodone, from the look. I'll do lab analysis later if John decides he won't tell me. A suicidal mess, a disaster in the making._

He waves the recollection away, shooing it out of his mind palace. There were other things to think on at the moment.

Naturally he'd been able to unlock John's laptop and read John's "note." He'd reread it four times now. Sherlock Holmes has never been one for deep emotion, but the words he'd read had cut the heart from him.

_He knows me. He knows I love showing off. Why couldn't he figure out what I was saying when I told him that I was a fake? And the longer I forced him to live with the lie, the more insane he grew._

Sherlock sighed. He crushed out the spent cigarette and reached for another, wishing he could instead reach for a gun and take out some of his self-directed rage on the wall, like he'd done in the old days. He wasn't bored now, oh no. He was humbled. His friend had called him out on the lie, just like Sherlock trusted him to. But because John hadn't put together all the pieces and had believed they'd been separated by a veil of death, he had made up his mind to tear the veil and deliver his rebuke in person.

But what about the rest? What about the talk of sexuality, of affection? What was that reference to, that the word love falls short?

A moan – another sound in that voice he held so dear. Sherlock is on his feet and moving, glad to be moving. He steps into his room and finds that John has shifted his position on the bed. His eyes are still closed, but they won't be much longer. This is the time to act, like it had been on the roof. No more planning. Time to move.

Sherlock carefully lifts John and wedges himself between him and the headboard. He brushes John's hair away from his forehead, noting, as always, the change in temperature, the unsteady pulse, the telltale signs that his friend – oh, why can't they make a better word than _friend?_ – has been through hell.

"_Sherlock!"_

"_I'm here."_

"_Then I'm dead. I did it. I died."_

"_No. Not yet, John. You're alive."_

"_I can't be. I'm talking to you."_

"_Then perhaps I'm alive too."_

"_That makes no sense."_

"_Remember what I told you about the impossible and the truth."_

"_Then it's a dream. That's the most plausible explanation."_

"_Perhaps it is a dream, at that."_

"_Right. I expect I'll be dead soon, however, so perhaps I should tell you what I came here to tell you in case I don't get the chance later."_

"_John –"_

"_No. You don't get to interrupt me this time. –I'm sorry, but this is all so . . .real. I really am talking with you, aren't I?"_

"_Yes, John."_

"_Right then. Sherlock Holmes, you are pompous, cold, arrogant, overbearing, socially maladroit, and nearly impossible to live with."_

"_This was hardly what I expected to hear."_

"_No interruptions."_

"_Right. Go on then."_

"_I don't know what defect lives in me that I can't bear to be away from you. I need to be near you, to know you're alright. Now that you're dead, I feel I have no purpose any longer."_

"_And this is why you tried to commit suicide?"_

"_Tried? I _did_ commit suicide, you bastard."_

"_I had a set of parents, John. Two parents. I'm as legitimate as anyone else."_

"_This is far too real to be a dream."_

"_It's far too real to be death."_

"_Why won't you let me finish?"_

"_I thought you had done. Go on."_

"_I am crossing oceans to be with you again. I can't be without you. I don't know how to be. And I don't know if saying that I love you is enough to express everything, every misbegotten moment between your fall and now. I literally have no idea how to behave without you."_

"_John –"_

"_So don't tell me it was wrong to off myself, okay? It was all I could think to do. The walls mocked me. I couldn't move. Three months, Sherlock, and I was only getting worse. I need you, and if you couldn't pull off the last miracle of being alive, despite what I saw, then it was up to me to reunite us."_

"_First of all, it _was_ wrong to off yourself. It proves to me that you perhaps didn't have as much faith in me as I'd hoped –"_

"_Don't you dare!"_

"_What?"_

"_Don't make me feel that every ounce of faith I did have in you was insufficient! I couldn't have hoped and tried harder than I did!"_

"_Calm yourself."_

"_Sherlock –"_

"_John, did you really think I would have ended on that note? Did you really think that I expected you, of all people, to believe me when I said I was a fake?"_

"_But –"_

"_It was a message to you, a code to prove to you I'd be back. My magic trick – I didn't die. I'm here. I'm here with you now, waiting for you to wake up. Waiting more earnestly than I've waited for anything before."_

John's heart is racing. He can feel it. He knows he is dreaming, but under that is another knowledge, a deeper, richer knowledge. _Sherlock is here._ He can tell by the energy in the air, that oh-so-delicious energy that crackles and fizzes whenever _he_ is in the room. Everything is exciting, painted in rich hypercolor hues. The possibilities seem endless. This dangerous sense of speed, of thrill, of magic and life – this is what Sherlock means to him. And somehow, he has it back.

He opens his eyes with a start. Soft, graceful fingers at his temple, at his wrist. A warm body behind him. Warm breath in his ear: "John?"

_That voice_. He'd know that voice anywhere, that rich baritone, the sonorous depth and breadth of it. John twitches, a full-body spasm that rolls over him – shock and relief and outrage all in one muscle release. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here."

John rolls over in bed and feels Sherlock's body move to accommodate and aid him. He is now staring into those eyes – eyes like glass, like water, those nearly transparent windows into a genius that borders on madness.

His thoughts come in a jumble: _You're alive – strike him – hurt him – like he hurt you – you're alive – he's alive – flesh and blood alive – damn you – need you – love you . . ._

He wants to strike him, to knock that familiar little smirk from his face, but he is too weak, too discombobulated. He does the only thing he can do – he reaches out and places his hand on Sherlock's face.

"Why?" he asks.

"To save you. To keep you alive. Nothing less would have been worth it."

It was the answer John expected, but it still unravels him. "And now?"

"Now I'm here."

"And – next time somebody threatens me to get to you?"

Sherlock's smirk deepens. He places his hand over John's. "I will find a way to kill them before I will ever leave you again."

"The pills . . ." John says, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Give me some credit. I know how to make a stomach pump. You aren't going to die."

"You saved me."

"Yes."

"Again."

"Yes."

"Why?"

That smirk again. "You want me to say it, don't you?"

"I think that after three months of madness and heartache, I deserve at least that."

Sherlock removes his hand from John's and moves it to his face. He looks into John's eyes, and John thinks it possible that he is reading every thought, deducing every motive and opinion. What strikes John in this moment is how _delighted_ Sherlock seems by everything he sees.

"I love you."

That simple. There is no hesitation, no stammering, no hedging. Sherlock had said it, easily and with a heartfelt sincerity that takes John's breath away.

"Sherlock –"

"I would die to protect you. I would have died that day if I hadn't believed that Moriarty had some sort of backup plan to kill you anyway. I had to be sure you were safe, we were safe." Sherlock's smirk melts and his face becomes dark and dreadful. "I was almost too late."

A wave of weariness swamps through John's system, but this moment is too good. He wants to cling to it a moment longer. "Why do you love me?"

Sherlock's expression becomes even more intense. "Because you were the only one who believed in me when it didn't profit you to do so. You had faith in my abilities. You saw me for what I thought I was, but you weren't so worshipful to fail to call out my failures. Because you are my match, my bloody brilliant, wonderful John. My John. You've made me better. You've made my whole damned life better."

_My John_. He likes the sound of that because it is so thoroughly true. He wants more of this, this sense of safety in Sherlock's arms, this cozy certainty that he is no longer alone and will never again have to be . . .but he is drifting off to sleep.

"Your pulse, John. You're anxious about something. What is it?"

"I'm afraid you won't be here when I wake up again."

"Have faith. I'll be here."

John has no choice, so he chooses faith and drifts off to sleep in his best friend's arms.

Sherlock spends the rest of the night and part of the next day in bed next to John. He doesn't touch him. He doesn't know what it would mean to touch him. Feelings are inconvenient and occasionally disastrous, but he thinks he can manage them. Sexuality? He doesn't understand anything about sexuality. No matter the number of jokes made at his expense, Sherlock has never minded . . .until now.

He can't deny his curiosity. But would it be welcome? John Watson is one of the most heterosexual men he knows. Yes, there had been a few words said about feelings the night before when John had come to for that little while, but what do feelings and sex really have to do with each other? It seems they can survive in mutually exclusive environments. Perhaps that is what John has in mind: Needing to be near, wanting to be loved, but not wanting to be sexual. Sherlock can do that. Surely. Sex is just a biomechanical reproductive process, adapted for same sex couples as needed.

Even so, the coupling – for lack of a better word – of sex and sentiment is supposed to amplify both sides of the equation, more a multiplication than an addition. Can he bear to multiply his feelings for John, only to be shot down?

Yes, perhaps touching is a bad idea. His curiosity to know the taste of John's mouth will have to die down and someday disappear. There is no way he will allow his curiosity to drive John away out of sheer awkwardness.

He climbs out of bed and heads back to the living room. He is startled to discover that he no longer wants a cigarette. He only wants to go back to bed and touch.

John's eyes pop open as evening rolls in, and he's alone.

"Sherlock!" he cries, popping out of bed and storming through the flat. Sherlock's eyes have opened from where he'd been sleeping on the couch, but that is just not good enough. For just a moment, John had been alone again, all alone, and he is sick to death of that treatment.

"John, I—"

No more words. John throws himself onto the couch, directly onto his best friend, and rains blows down on him – his chest, his stomach, his arms. He can hear the pain in his friend's voice, but he can't seem to stop himself. "You left me!" he shouts, filling the empty silence with his rage.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says after he manages to trap John's wrists in his hands. "I'm so sorry."

"Let go of me!"

A smile – a beautiful smile, the grin he'd missed in his soul – lights up Sherlock's face. "What is it with you and your sister determined to physically murder me?"

"M-my sister?"

"She came round this morning, checking on you. I explained that you were asleep. You needed rest. I think I even gave it a hint of innuendo when I winked at her."

"So she doesn't know about –"

"No." Sherlock shifts his weight under John's body and John's body _notices_. "No one will ever know about the pills. It's between you and me."

"Everyone knows about your suicide."

"It wasn't really a suicide, was it?" _Wink._ Sherlock had winked at him. There is no denying it.

"Well, no." John flushes. He can feel Sherlock's thighs pressed against his own, can feel a slight rocking motion . . .

"I'm alive. You're alive. There's no reason for anyone to get any more involved than that."

John suddenly feels a little drunk. "What were you saying about Harry trying to kill you?"

"That's not what you wanted to ask." Sherlock's voice is a deep purr, and his eyes seem almost to crystallize as he says it.

"How can you know that?"

Sherlock presses his fingers deeper into John's wrist, and he understands. _My pulse._

"Arousal, my old friend. Somehow, by some miracle, you're aroused."

"Miracle?"

"You aren't gay."

"Neither are you."

"I wouldn't really know. I've never done anything of this sort. I just thought that making this physical might be . . .problematic, since you weren't gay."

"And you were prepared to humor me?"

"I would do anything for you."

John doesn't have to hear any more. He acts on his body's impulses and lunges forward, capturing Sherlock's mouth with his own. At first he is met with firmness and rigidity – _Startled, he's startled, he doesn't know what to do, hell, I don't know what to do!_ – but soon enough Sherlock relaxes his mouth.

"Just relax," John says, trying to encourage his inexperienced friend. "Let me kiss you."

"Yes," Sherlock mutters, and John hears the telltale tremble in his voice. John begins the kiss anew and Sherlock is receptive, blessedly compliant and yielding in his arms. He had released his grip on John's wrists during the first kiss and now John takes advantage, sliding his hands down Sherlock's arms and holding his face still. That face – still so boyish, able to switch from genius to surly child at the drop of an epithet – it is so full of emotion, not the least of which is soaring joy.

"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" John asks, gently opening the buttons on his lover's shirt.

"Completely."

"Then close your eyes and let me show you how much I love you."

Hours later, and Sherlock is curled around John's body. They'd made love on the couch, then had a quick snack, then showered together, then made love again in Sherlock's bed. He loved the way their scents mingled in his sheets.

He wasn't free of troubles, of course; now that his heart wasn't his anymore, he would have to be even more vigilant, more aware, more careful. He could not, would not risk John. And he would only allow himself these blissful days when he was sure there were no immediate threats to either of them. He would have to be crafty indeed to ensure he was never trapped on a roof again with another murderous supervillain.

But he is more than content, because now his mind is engaged with his heart. He could keep that needy part of him, the too easily bored part, occupied with scoping out the threats. The rest of him is devoted to the man who had waited – _his John._


End file.
